


Crunch

by orphan_account



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 13:06:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spot ends up looking after Les for an afternoon</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crunch

It had been awhile since Spot had paid a visit to the Manhattan Lodging House. He’d had business to take care of in Brooklyn during the past few weeks, and Race usually kept him up-to-date anyway when he passed through Spot’s turf to sell at Sheepshead. But Race hadn’t come by in a while - apparently he’d hurt his foot, and was selling close to home because it hurt to walk. And besides, he thought it’d be nice to see how ol’ Jacky Boy and the rest were getting on.

Which was how he ended up sitting on the end of Race’s bunk, watching with amusement as Race yelled at Snipe for stealing his cigars again.

“If my foot wasn’t hurt, I’d come over there and toss you out a window!” Race called, sounding about as threatening as a housecat.

“Race, can you even _reach_ the window?” Spot teased.

“Oh _you’re_ one to be making cracks about being short, Conlon,” Racetrack grumbled.

“ ’m taller than _you_.”

“Shaddup.”

Spot could always tell when Race wasn’t in the mood for any more, so he knew when to ease off. He preoccupied himself instead by watching Jack stare at his selling partner like he hung the moon.

David was talking about something he’d learned in class, something Spot didn’t have any interest in whatsoever, but Jack was listening with the kind of rapt attention he usually only paid to Medda or other such interestin’ folk.

The Walking Mouth was an interesting case, for sure. Straight-laced, naïve, annoyingly honest, and yet somehow he’d still managed to twist Manhattan’s cocky leader completely around his little finger.

But as smart as David was, he had the observational skills of a brick wall when Jack was anywhere nearby. Because anyone else would have noticed by now that something was bothering his little brother.

Les just wasn’t being his normal, chatty self. He wasn’t poking around the room and getting into things he shouldn’t; he wasn’t asking eight billion different questions that had no relation to each other whatsoever; hell, he wasn’t even fidgeting! Just sitting there quietly, hugging his knees to his chest.

And maybe it was just because of how much he resembled Jack when they were that age, but Spot found himself walking over to where the kid was sitting and squatting down next to him.

“You alright, kid?”

Les regarded him with suspicion before muttering a petulant “Yeah.”

“You sure about that?”

“I just wanna go home, that’s all. But Davey’s talking.”

“Yeah. He’s always talking, isn’t he? But you know, I bet you could go over and tell him you’s ready to go home and he’d take you,” Spot said thoughtfully.

“But he doesn’t get to see Jack so much now that we’re back in school,” Les sighed, looking over at his brother.

“You keep looking after your brother like this, who’s gonna look after you?” Spot asked gently,

“ _You_ , it looks like,” he grumbled, and Spot actually laughed in surprise. Apparently David’s bitter sense of humor was a family trait.

Spot stood, and walked over to where Jack and David were talking on Jack’s bunk.

“Hey, mouthpiece?” he said, and David immediately straightened up from where he was leaning against Jack.

“Race ain’t been the best company today, so I’m fixin’ to head back. An’ it looks to me like Les wants to go home too, an’ seeing as how you’re obviously a little _preoccupied_ , I figured I could just walk him back for you.”

“Oh,” was all David said at first, his attention turning to Les for the first time that afternoon. “I mean, thanks for the offer, but I—”

“He’s probably safer with Spot than me or you, Dave,” Jack laughed, and Spot could practically see David’s resolve melt away when Jack put an arm around him.

“Ah … Well, alright, Spot. And thanks. I owe you one.”

“Oh I won’t forget, don’t worry,” Spot replied, grinning at the possibility of getting a chance to pull a favor from Jacky Boy’s pet.

~~~

Les seemed to perk up once they made it outside. Pretty soon he was running around like Jack on a good day, jumping on top of leaves on the sidewalk to hear them crunch beneath his boots.

“You know if you go to Central Park you can jump in actual leaf piles, right?” Spot offered. Not because he and Jack had ever done anything like that during their wild and misspent youth. Because they most definitely hadn’t.

“Yeah, but no one wants to take me,” Les pouted.

“Hell, I could take you if you want,” Spot offered.

Wait. Did he just offer to … (and _shit_ , David probably wouldn’t appreciate him swearing in front of his younger brother. Well, too late now).

Les stopped in his tracks and turned to face Spot with an expression of disbelief.

“You wanna jump in the leaves? Do they even do that where you’re from?!”

“What, you think we don’t know how to have fun in Brooklyn?”

Les shook his head adamantly. “You just hide up on roofs and make faces at people and shoot marbles at them!”

Spot chuckled. “Now don’t go givin’ away all our secrets, kid.”

“You’re really gonna play in the leaves with me?” Les squinted at him suspiciously.

“Well I said I would, didn’t I?”

~~~

Spot knew that if anyone saw him jumping up and down and laughing in the leaves with a nine-year-old they’d never let him live it down, but he also knew that allowing himself to let his guard down for ten minutes felt really, really nice.

But then Les tossed an armful of leaves in Spot’s face and Spot shoved him back lightly, and he winced a lot harder than he should have. 

Spot immediately tensed up. “Les, what’s wrong?” he asked, and something in his tone must have convinced Les not to try and lie his way out.

“Kids at school,” he said quietly, not meeting Spot’s eyes.

“They hurt you?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Just a little. Not as bad as when Davey … Davey’s always had it worse—”

“Didn’t ask about Davey, kid. I’m askin’ about _you_. You gotta stop worrying about your brother so much. He worries too much about you, you worry too much about him, and pretty soon no one’s watching his own back anymore. Ain’t healthy.”

Les didn’t appear to have anything to say to that, so Spot moved on.

“So these kids attacked you? You fight back?”

“I _tried!_ They were bigger than me!” Les cried.

“Hmm. Rough deal,” Spot said with sympathy. That was definitely a situation he’d found himself in before.

“There’s nothing I can do about it,” he muttered, sounding defeated.

Spot knelt so that he could meet Les at eye level.

“Les,” he began, “how many of the guys around here do you think are bigger than me? … Hey, you can laugh. It’s okay. I know, I’m short.” And it was true. Honestly, Racetrack was probably the only newsie in Manhattan over the age of twelve that was smaller than Spot. “And how many of those guys do you think could best me in a fight?” he continued.

“None, probably,” Les admitted grudgingly.

“So the way I see it is, those kids at school may be bigger than you, but they also haven’t been properly trained by the King of Brooklyn himself—”

Les gasped. “You’re gonna teach me how to fight?!”

“Why not? We’ve still got time.” Spot said, grinning mischievously. “Oh, but Les?”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe don’t tell your brother about this…”


End file.
